Soul Whispers Novels & Stories

—The Whisper in the Crack The voice echoed from within the glowing fracture in the floor—soft, ethereal, unearthly. It wasn’t Sebastian. It wasn’t Killian. And it certainly wasn’t a part of the illusion. “Selene… wake up. It’s not just your mind they’re after—it’s your soul.”

“You loved blindly—and doomed us all.” He screamed. Fell forward, forehead to the blood-soaked ground. “No!” The sword pulsed beside him, its light dimming. Feathers drifted down around him—singed, burning, dying. And then… Another presence. Footsteps in ash. He raised his head slowly. A silhouette. Tall. Cloaked in black. Its face… blurred. Its eyes… watching. It stepped closer. And whispered— “You will forget. But your soul will not.” It raised a hand.

Suzie responded as she gently changed into a new pair of shoes. “She could hear the voices of the damned. Maybe because she is part of the damned,” “What is she talking about?” I was curious to know. The look on the priestess face made it scarier to want to know. “Only few people are allowed to hear the other side, listen to what they say, the story they have to say. We call them Whisperers,” The priestess explained as she took a seat next to the fireplace. Her old raggy clothes couldn't hide the fear she felt.

The sky itself bowed and closed onto us, the atmosphere saturated with despair. I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. That was the trap. It set us into an anaesthetic state where we were all at our most vulnerable condition. Whispers slithered into my ears, ethereally beautiful, yet cunning, concurrent voices murmuring things I could not fully understand. However, somehow I knew that they were meant for me. “Psss…. Shhh…Sss…” Each word wrapped around my thoughts, persuasive, tempting, as well as, pulling at the weakest parts of my mind. My chest tightened as a crushing spiritual pressure descended, forcing its way into my consciousness.

Darkness swallowed Sophia whole. For a moment, there was nothing but a suffocating silence, a void that held her suspended between life and death. Then, all at once, everything crashed back into her senses—cold, rushing water, a fierce current pulling her under, and the frantic pounding of her heart that thundered in her ears.

His mother knelt beside him, trying to soothe the violently vibrating plant. "Morat, Lyra, we’re here," she whispered. "Hold on." Kit, who had been silent in the corner, suddenly clutched his head. "Siron... I hear voices..." "What voices?" Siron asked, alert. "Voices... like silver whispers. From them." Kit pointed at the Soul Reapers. "They... they aren't fully conscious. There are still remnants of self-will. Hunger... loneliness..." Elara glanced at Kit. "The remaining energy of The Whisperer inside you, you're still connected to them!"

The morning air in Ashford Hollow carried the scent of damp earth, wet cedar, and something faintly metallic that always lingered after heavy rain. Clara Whitmore stood behind the worn oak counter of Willow & Ink, smoothing the spines of a stack of newly donated novels, aligning them with meticulous care. The storm had returned sometime after midnight. She had woken to its rhythm—steady, persistent, almost purposeful. Rain in Ashford Hollow was never merely weather. It was a messenger. A reminder. A whisper.

My lungs could barely pull in air with him so close. I sighed deeply, trying to regain some control, some clarity. But it was useless. Daimon surrounded me from all sides—with his presence, his touch, his voice, his scent. I was sinking into him. It was then that I heard them. The whispers. They came with the wind, like an ancient lament, almost ethereal, wrapping around us. The temperature seemed to drop for a second, but his heat kept me alive. The whispers swirled around us, spinning like an invisible dance, scraping at the senses, and then a single word echoed clearly:

He pulled a small, black whistle from his belt—made of human bone. "You think a little light can stop me?" Silas screamed. "I have spent fifty years preparing for this! If I cannot have the Origin, then no one will have a soul!" He blew the whistle. The sound wasn't a noise. It was a frequency that made the very air curdle. Far off in the North, a sound answered. A sound of a gate being ripped open again. Not by a Soul-Eater, but by something smaller. Something faster. The ground beneath our feet began to turn into black glass.